Defective Detective
by PallaPlease
Summary: [Very old comedy of dubious skill.]  In the late 1920s, Timothy Drake, P.I., is drawn into a highly bizarre mystery.  Er, sort of.
1. One!

Defective Detective Part I: Ooo…Beginning-y… 

-

        It was the year 1929: a time of celebrations, gangsters, and absurd mysteries.  It was an unknown day in a forgotten month, and the office of Timothy Drake, P.I., was dark, the fancy lamp dim and flickering.  For some undeclared reason, an explosive thunderstorm had begun a few minutes before out of nowhere, and rain smeared across the one window overlooking the grey city.  Timothy paid no heed to it all; as it was, he had his chair tilted back, head resting against the wall behind his varnished hardwood desk, mouth hanging slightly open.  A soft snore issued forth from his mouth.

        Without warning, the door to his office was thrown open viciously, the frosted windowpane on the door shattering noisily.  A wild war cry tore out of Timothy's throat as he up in surprise, accidentally overbalancing his chair and promptly falling out of it.  Cassandra, his well-meaning secretary, stared, eyes wide.  "Oh, um, sorry, Mister Drake," she laughed nervously, her hand behind her head.  "Didn't mean to cause property damage – again."  She tittered, albeit insecurely, then coughed.  "Oh, and there's a pretty, obligatorily bewildered young lady here to request your assistance."  That said, she smiled desperately, hauling a handsome young man with unruly black hair and light facial growth into the room.  The young detective had, by then, hastily climbed back to his feet, and his eyebrows merged with his hairline.  "Oh!"  Cassandra quickly shoved the chiseled young man back into the hallway, grinning a grimacing sort of smile at Timothy.  "I'll call you later, Kon," she leaned behind the door, then popped back into the office.  "This is," she pulled in a lovely young lady in a smooth overcoat, "Secret."

        An unexpected flash of lightning tore through the stormy night sky, illuminating the room brilliantly as an ominous smash of thunder exploded.  All present looked up and around as the thunder rolled on for an unnecessarily long amount of time.  "Well," Timothy blinked, "that is definitely new."  He turned his attention back to Cassandra, who was blinking rapidly, and the ethereally pretty girl beside her.

        Silken light hair bobbed according to the latest style framed an innocent face, set with a pair of sparkling eyes.  A black veil covered the upper part of her face, cutting off just above the tip of her nose.  He was dimly aware that he was gaping at her and she, thinking there was something the matter with her appearance, anxiously adjusted her creamy white hat, dabbing at the pale paint on her lips.  Her overcoat was a light grey, the white shirt and skit under it cut fashionably.  Obviously, she was from a well-to-do family – and not unattractive, as his hormones insisted upon telling him.  As if he hadn't already figured that out. 

        "Ah, hello," he offered her his hand, eyes locked with hers.  Cassandra exited discreetly as Secret stepped forward, shaking his hand with a smile.  "Please," he motioned to the chair before his desk, "do take a seat."  Secret did so, with unconscious elegance, crossing her legs and smoothing over her coat, tucking the loose lapels between her thighs and the arms of the chair.  Timothy swallowed, continuing with: "Would you mind sharing with me what your…dilemma is?"

        Fiddling around with her hands, eyes cast downward, she bit her lower lip, lifting a hand to tuck loose strands of her soft hair behind her ears.  "I received a note the other night and," she swallowed thickly, eyes tearing up, "my parents were dead in the morning.  The note…had given me clues as to who would be killed: I didn't understand it until after."  She scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand.  Timothy reached across his desk, clasping her other hand in his and squeezing it comfortingly.  She smiled wanly, taking a deep breath.  "Last night, I received another note.  I think I may be the murderer's next victim."

        A crash of thunder echoed sinisterly, without a bolt of lightning preceding it.  Instead, the dagger-like streak of sizzling electricity followed the thunder.

        "That's something you don't see everyday," Timothy remarked with an arched eyebrow.

        Sudden, blazing orchestra music boomed warningly for a total of five seconds, bouncing off the walls of the room.  Secret and Timothy stared at each other and the male of the two snatched up a paperweight, hefting it as he made his way around the desk, grasping her elbow with his free hand.  "Let's go," he suggested quickly.

        "Where to?" Secret questioned, a sweetly curious look on her face.

        "To meet a contact of mine," he assured her, leading her to the door after he clicked off his office's one lamp.  He paused before following her out glancing around his blackened office.  "Weird," he muttered, shaking his head.

        Timothy was careful enough to close the door once they entered the hallway.

        Both politely averted their eyes from where Cassandra and Kon were practicing the horizontal tango, on an insanely small bench.

        "What can I get you?" Anita smiled her prettiest smile, the one she kept on reserve.  Her outfit, a knee-long dress with short sleeves, was astonishingly immaculate considering the establishment she served within.  Bit then again, the bar resembled a diner with all of its shimmering cleanliness, every surface sparkling and gleaming almost blindingly.  All of it was a side effect of Cissie's near obsession with a well-maintained atmosphere.

        Lobo, of course, could care less about how perfectly clean the bar was, so long as 'his girl' continued to work there.  "Th' usual, 'Nita-love," he smirked, and she nodded, turning to Cissie, only to find the unhealthily strong drink was already prepared.  Anita blinked, shrugged, and slid the drink over the counter to the tough-as-nails gangster.

        "God, I hate this stupid suit," he muttered darkly, tugging at the stiff collar of the horrid pin-stripe suit, eyes flashing dangerously.

        Out of nowhere, a dark shadow detached itself from the far wall and launched towards the cheerily painted glass doors, cackling maniacally until it ran into the wall next to the door.  Cissie groaned and tossed aside the fluffy towel she was using to rub frantically at an already spotless countertop.  "Damn it!  How many times have I told him not to drunk unsupervised amounts of coca-cola?  But nooo, he has to got and drink the whole barrel, and steal the Bad Guy's cloak, to top it all off!"

        Stalking over to the crumpled shadow, she whipped the black cloak off, revealing a lean young man with bushy hair and over-sized feet.  Immediately, he leapt to his said over-sized feet, crying, "I am Archduke Ferdinand!  My claim to the throne is indisputable!"  With a kooky debonair air, he twirled the thin, odd black mustache lining his upper lip triumphantly.  Purely by chance, he tore the half he was twirling straight off and yelped as the sensitive flesh reddened, trying desperately to stick it back on.  He succeeded – if plastering it on lopsided and partly up his left nostril could be considered to be success.

        Cissie sighed, saying, "Sorry, Bart."  With that, she whapped him, hard and painfully, on his head, catching his suddenly out-cold form and dragging him across the waxed floor, behind the counter, and into the backroom.  "You aren't supposed to enter the story until later, doofus!"

        "Did they use the word 'doofus' in 1929?" Anita asked Lobo, her dark curly hair falling around her shoulders.  Impatiently, she brushed the thick locks out of her way.

        Lobo shrugged.  "Dunno."

        The doors flew open and a skeletal finger of lightning created a halo of bright light at the back of the man and woman standing in the doorway; thunder followed by half a second and another burst of orchestra music boomed out.

        "That is growing immensely irritating," Timothy spoke conversationally to Secret.

        She, in reply, lifted a hand to her hat and overturned it, pouring a roaring stream of water out of it: her hat drooping from being soaked with rainwater.

        Five minutes later, Lobo glanced down at the thigh-high pool of water rapidly rising.  "Not that I'm worried or nuthin'," he began casually, watchin as Anita got ready to climb up on to the counter, "but is this normal?"

        Someone in the back yelled "Shark!" and Anita shrieked, glomping Lobo and dragging them both underwater.

        "This is definitely getting out of hand," Cissie grumbled, lifting a deliriously singing Bart above the water's surface.


	2. Two!

**Defective Detective**

**Part II: Dun-Dun-Dun-Duunn…**

**-**

        "I'm a bit curious as to how you managed to hold all that water in your hat," Anita remarked, running a hand through her slightly tangled curling hair and straightening the bodice of her dress.  Lobo had a self-satisfied smirk on his face, and, though she didn't know the eccentric group of people, Secret was positive that she did not want to know why.

        "Subspace pocket," she answered simply, fixing her hat back over her head.  At the stares she was receiving, she slapped herself in the face.  "Wrong era?"

        "No kidding," Cissie grinned, an arm hung over "Archduke Ferdinand's" shoulder.  ("Archduke Ferdinand" being a tied-up Bart.)

        "Are we done yet?" Timothy sighed, fixing each with a deadly stare.  "Good.  Now, Anita, I need to ask you some questions, all right?"  He waited a bit for a reply and he heard "yes" just as a nameless extra finished mopping up the water.  "Miss Secret here has received two notes from a killer.  Her parents were both murdered after the first note and we have reason to suspect she herself is the next target."

        Cue lightning/thunder/orchestra music.

        "Have you heard any gossip lately that could be relevant to Miss Secret's case?  Seen anyone suspicious?"

        Anita chewed thoughtfully on her lip, propping her chin up in her hand, elbows placed on the slippery-wet counter.  "Maybe," she finally said, slowly.  "There was a man here yesterday: dark skin, dark eyes, dark hair."  Secret's face paled in a sort of sickly fright.  "Rather arrogant fellow, too.  Called himself 'Harm.'  He watched Cissie and I like a hawk 'til Lobo and Bart showed up for an afternoon drink."  She shuddered, and there was soft, eerie music playing from somewhere: a violin slowly etching out a cruel melody.  "He gave me the willies."

        Does anybody else hear that music?, Timothy wondered briefly before his analytical mind began to efficiently note details.  "How about you, Cissie?" he inquired.

        "Same thing," was her response, "except that I saw him smiling at the newspapers he had with him.  I think he was reading obituaries."  Secret gripped the counter tightly enough so that her knuckles were white, lips drawn into tense lines.  Not Billy…not again, not now.

        Lobo downed his drink quickly, not so much as flinching as the fiery liquid made its way down his throat.  Setting his glass down, he turned to Timothy.  "I seen 'im before," he stated indifferently.  All heads swiveled to him.  "Guy was arrested a coupla years for murder.  Name's Billy, but 'e call hisself Harm."

        The lights in the bar flickered in true ominous fashion as yet another flash of lightning and roll of thunder occurred, followed by the orchestra music.  Timothy's left eye started twitching and he clamped a hand over it.  "I swear," he hissed in a strangled voice, "so help me God, if that happens ONE MORE TIME…"

        To spite him, the lightning/thunder/orchestra music combo ignited once more.

        Whipping his revolver out of the holster hanging off his belt, Timothy moved to lunge towards the door.  Secret grabbed his arm before he could actually complete the act of violence (by the time she managed to catch his arm, he had already fired a shot, hitting an off-screen cellist – the mourning lasted for a whole second before he was replaced), accidentally being tugged off her stool.  Her skirt and overcoat flared up mortifyingly.

        Bart's mouth dropped open and Cissie's hand fisted, trembling dangerously as she restrained herself from slugging the all-but-drooling man.  Anita, having no such self-restraints, slapped a grinning Lobo across the face, a frown curving her lips downward.  "Pig," she scowled at him.

        "Thank-you," he returned, smiling.


	3. Three!

Defective Detective 

**Part III: Where DOES That Music Come From?**

-

                An expendable extra knocked, with a quivering hand, on the suitably run-down door, a fold black cloak held under his arm.  He checked his colorless (this IS a black-and-white 20s film spoof, silly!) hat and shrunk back as the door opened inward slowly of its own creepy will, creaking eerily.  One of the rusted hinges fell off and the door collapsed to the floor (covered with the customary multiple inches of dust, and the ashes of previous expendable extras) with a resounding crash, the weight of the top snapping loose having dragged it to the floor.  He jumped.

        "Crap," a grating voice muttered.  "Have to get that fixed."  A tall, looming figure…well, loomed up sinisterly.  "Who are you?" he demanded, eyes narrowed evilly.

        "Ex-ex-expendable extra," the teenaged boy stuttered, holding up the Bad Guy's cloak.

        "Oooo!" the Bad Guy (who we all know the identity of by now anyway) squealed, clapping his hands together happily.  "My cloak!  You found it!"  He snatched the cloak up and hugged it, then paused to sniff it critically.  "And you dry-cleaned it."  He pinned the expendable extra with a dark look.  "I hate dry-cleaning."

        Lightning flash, thunder boomed, and the orchestra roared.  As usual.

        As the glare and the noise faded, it was revealed with great horror and/or glee that the expendable extra was gone.

        'Cause, like, he's the expendable extra.  Duh.

        Once Secret managed to right herself, arranging her overcoat back into place, and Anita stopped accusing Lobo, Timothy reholstered his revolver and took a deep, calming breath.  "Lobo, you say you know this guy?"

        "Yeah," Lobo shrugged carelessly.  "So?"  Anita smacked him lightly on his head.  "What?"

        "What Timothy is getting at," Secret interrupted smoothly before Anita could inflict any more affectionate damage on Lobo (who wouldn't really notice), "is, would you be able to lead us to the Bad Guy's Super Secret Hellhole/Base?"

        "Actually," he corrected, pushing away from the bar and absently straightening the coat of his suit, "it's Billy's Really Really Obvious Place of Near Constant Harm."  Once more, the orchestra screamed out its warning music and lightning dashed through the sky, thunder sending out waves of rumbling noise.  Timothy let out a strangled noise and struggled not to grab his revolver.  "Y'know, that is getting' annoying."  There was another pause.  "And whassup wit' all these cheesy hide-out names?"

        "Lack of 20s originality?" Cissie suggested, at the same time as Bart cried, "Infidels!  How dare you keep I, Archduke Ferdinand, from my rightful crown!"  Cissie barely blinked as she clamped a hand over Bart's mouth.  "It doesn't really matter, though, so long as we find the Bad Guy."

        "Why is everyone referring to him as the Bad Guy?" Timothy snarled, frustrated.  "We know his name!  He's Billy!  Harm!  I don't care what you call him so long as it isn't BAD GUY!"

        Everyone in general blinked.  (Bart was too busy muttering how "the traitorous scum" would pay for refusing him his throne.)  

        For some idiotic reason, a flutist started playing an annoyingly chipper little song.  Timothy turned, glared, and the flutist squeaked once, then fell silent.  "Now," he strained out in a frighteningly calm voice, "let's go to Billy's something-something-something Harm.  Lobo?"

        The gangster quickly downed his third shot of the amber drink and tossed the glass container to Anita.  "Be seein' ya," he grinned, following Timothy and Secret out of the bar.

        "Come back to me," Anita sighed.

        "Okay, that was schmaltzy," Cissie told her flatly.

        "Shut-up," Anita stuck her tongue out.

        Noble music played triumphantly behind the trio as they strolled along the sidewalk to the obvious and frightening apartment building that anybody in their right mind would avoid like the Spanish influenza.  Lobo was beginning to experience the same things Timothy was: irritation, smoldering anger, and an intense desire to hunt down whoever wrote the repetitive score.  Timothy alone, however, had a twitching left eye, and he was verging on losing control once more.  Secret walked along to the best of her capability, mentally swearing at the stick-thin high heels as they wobbled threateningly beneath her weight.  She wasn't that heavy.

        The music swelled, growing louder and braver, displaying a heart-wrenching depth of courage and bravery.  In the same instant, Lobo and Timothy pointed guns across at a suspiciously blank building, and the heel of Secret's right shoe snapped off, catapulting her forward.

        "Stop playing that music!" Timothy all but screamed.

        "Wha' 'e said!" Lobo roared, itching to fire on the building.  The music screeched to a halt, leaving only one oblivious violinist playing the music.

        "Janet, stop," a voice hissed somewhere in the building and there were mild scuffling sounds, then the violin was silenced.

        "I hate these shoes!" Secret wailed.


	4. Four!

**Defective Detective**

**Part IV: The Plot Thickens/The 30s!**

-

        "Now, now," Billy/Harm/Bad Guy murmured to himself, rubbing his hands together gleefully, "how shall I dispose of you, baby sister?"  Various nasty-looking devices that implied painful, gruesome death were spread out before him: devices ranging from a railroad spike to a piece of rope.  "So many choices!  Perhaps a bomb far too advanced for this time?  Or some far-fetched and highly improbable chain of torture devices that will trigger a final deathblow?"  He frowned and shook his head, contemplating the difficult decision he was facing.  

        Truly, he thought, how could one decide on only one way to exterminate the life of another?  It was a sad time when killers were expected to kill in their own constant manner, always using a certain pattern or order.  It made him feel saddened when he thought of all the people who forgot the true art to death.

        (Yeesh.  Intensive psychotherapy, no?)

        "Be quiet," Billy glared up at the ceiling.

        (What?  You can hear me?)

        "Well, duh," he rolled his eyes.

        (Oh, poopie!  I'll be quiet now.)

        "Thank-you."  He resumed his diabolical planning/thinking/internal ranting.

        (Weirdo.)

        "Excuse me?"

        (Shutting up!)

        Rain dripped down on Secret's shoulders, sliding in curving lines down her arms to her slender fingertips, where the droplets plummeted to the harsh cement below, dashing into nothingness.  Her bare feet slapped against the gravelly surface of the sidewalk, eyes half-lidded in resigned distaste as she trailed after Timothy and Lobo.  The air smelled gingerly of sweet rain, the clouds humming silently above as they walked.  This is absurd, she thought despairingly.  We've been walking for ten minutes and we haven't gotten any closer to Billy's secret hide-out!

        And then she noticed something strange.  Something peculiar.  Something that was completely out of place in a black-and-white 20s movie spoof.  Color.  Bright, glaring, flamboyant color.  Timothy's previously dark grey suit was now a rich chocolate-y brown color, his derby hat a pale yellow.  Lobo's suit remained black with mediocre grey stripes and nothing about him seemed to have changed…until she saw him turn his head to look at the sign for a gritty looking bar.  His eyes were…red.  "Sweet heaven," she cried softly, looking down at herself.  Her overcoat was now tan and her hands a soft shell-pink color.  Grasping at strands of her hair, she stared intently at it.  Wheat gold!  "What's happening, Timothy?" she cried, this time loudly.

        Both men stopped, looked at her, looked her up and down, and then at each other.  "My God!" Timothy suddenly yelled.  "We're not in a 20s film spoof anymore!"  Secret gasped in horror and Lobo blinked, a bit unnerved.  (Wow.  Is that possible?)  "We're in the 30s!" 

        Lightning flared and thunder growled.

        "Thassit," Lobo cracked his knuckles, hefting his now-silver gun.  "I'm fraggin' the special 'fects man."

        Kelly turned and stared at Jordan, who was trying to tear his "Special Effects Man" patch off of his flannel work-shirt, his motions desperate.

        "Well," she said cheerfully, "nice working with you!"

        "I don't wanna die!" Jordan sobbed in way of reply.


	5. Five!

**Defective Detective**

**Part V: Technicolor!  (And Archduke Ferdinand's Grand Rise)**

**-**

        Harm lovingly fastened his Bad Guy cloak over his shoulders and made sure to check that his lipstick and face paint wasn't too thick: he didn't want to give them the wrong impression.  Hoisting the impossibly large weapon to his shoulder, he waited in his inner sanctum, knowing they were coming.

        And waited.

        And waited.

        And waited.

        And waited.

        And finally decided that, no, it wasn't worth waiting.  He was practically dying of old age waiting for them to come in.  Besides, Rule #492 of the Early 1900s Film Guidelines On How To Be A Successful Villain(ess) book explicitly stated that after four 'and waited's, a villain/villianess needed to bring the fight to the heroes/good people/et cetera.  Never mind the subscript stating that this usually ended in the villain/villianess' crushing, bruising defeat.

        "I'll never understand why it took so long to get here," Secret groaned, massaging her weary heels as she plopped to the sidewalk in front of the apartment building, legs stretched out before her.  "It isn't normal."

        "Repeating track," Timothy yawned, patting absently at his mouth.  He wished he'd been able to finish his nap earlier…  "Playing the same background over and over and over.  Nutsy, isn't it?"

        "Very," Secret agreed.  

        "I need a drink," Lobo groused, loading his rifle casually.  "Or two.  Or three."

        The overcast sky was darkening, rain falling harder and faster.  Blurry streams of rainwater inhibited eyesight and slowly soaked through whatever pieces of clothing had not yet been soaked completely.  Absently, Secret plucked her drooping hat off of her limp hair and wrung it between her chilled, wet hands.  Water pooled at her bare feet, springing from the bottom of her hat, and she replaced the hat, smashing it firmly down on her hair.  Morosely, it was quickly wettened again.  "Fudge," she exhaled noisily.

        "Fudge indeed," a cruel voice interjected and the trio whirled around, staring at the tall man before them.  Billy, or Harm as he was now, smiled in cold, evil triumph down at them.  Secret froze, her face draining of all (newly gained) color as she swallowed thickly.  "Hello, little sister.  Fancy meeting you here."  A lengthy pause passed and Harm contorted his face.  "Good Lord, did I just use the word 'fancy?'" he muttered.  "Oh, but never mind that!  I shall kill all of you because…I'm…not…," he frowned, trying to think of something witty that would remain in the viewer's mind forever, "a nice person!"  Well, it wasn't witty.  

        "Backstabbing pig!" a new voice hissed and, out of the dark shadows of a conveniently located mailbox (?!), "Archduke Ferdinand" came flying forth, tackling Harm with great dignity.  "I am Archduke Ferdinand, true heir to the throne!  You have usurped my crown, made a mockery of my kingdom, and eaten the peel of a banana!"

        "That's just wrong," Secret said, horror in her voice.  "No brother of mine would eat a banana peel!"

        "Supervillain-ism doesn't pay much, okay?" Harm snapped before Bart slugged him.

        "That was pretty convenient that you guys showed up in the nick of time," Timothy told Cissie, who was doing her best to ignore Anita and Lobo.

        "Well, we figured that you all would need help if you were going to fight someone sick enough to eat banana peel," Cissie replied, not missing a beat.  She paused.  "Okay, the narrator told us to get our fannies over to the only run-down apartment in the city.  So sue me."

        "There's a…narrator for this thing?" Secret questioned, a strange look on her face.

        "I am no longer Archduke Ferdinand!  I am now King Archduke Ferdinand!  Bow before me, peasants!  Bow!"


	6. You're Alive!  The Notes

Defective Detective 

**Notes and Official Whatnot**

**-**

**Written: **Thanksgiving of 2001. 

**Distribution:** YJFFML, Young Justice: A Fanfiction Site, FanFiction.net, Nonsensical Delight

**Disclaimer:** All the characters belong to DC Comics, though I maintain I would treat 'em better.

**Notes: **The humor is a bit outdated and very freshman in nature, I know, but nonetheless, it's something I've long held a soft spot for.  Maybe someone out there will find it funny.

**Other: **Nearly two years later, I've begun working on a sort of sequel.  I couldn't just let the idea of Timothy Drake, P.I., and his esteemed companions go to waste, could I?  Trust me, it'll be much better.  Look for 'All That Jazz' soon.  ;]

**Feedback:** Nutritious /and/ delicious!  How can you go wrong?  Review or send me an e-mail at WolfHowlN2@aol.com


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